AN: HAPPY SHERLOCK DAY!

My gentle, lovely, amazing readers. So many things! First: I have finally graduated college and am done with the time-sucking thing that is school! So THAT means I can return to our semi-regular programming. Second: Thank you all so, so much for your amazing patience and encouragement and support. I have always read about fanfic authors getting burned by their readers on occasion for lengthy updates, and I am pleased to say I have never been chastened by any of you guys. I cherish each and every one of you, and your incredible ability to put up with my absences. SO, I have had this update planned for this very special day. No matter how s4 turns out, I hope this can be a boon to you all. Let's get through this together.

Now, without further ado...chapter 22!

xxHoney

"Remember the game we used to play, Sherlock?" she said, clasping his hands as she knelt in front of him. He nodded, a little uncertain. "Good. Now I need you to listen to me very carefully."

Sherlock glanced to his bedroom door then back to her violet eyes.

"I'm listening."

-oOo-

Sherlock sits on Missus Hudson's sofa, nervously kicking his feet so the heels of his trainers thunk against the bottom. He's trying to play Sudoku on his phone while Mrs. Hudson finishes preparing her roast, occupying himself until they can watch a movie like they always do when John is away. However, his mind is all over the place.

He looks up at her bird clock, the little hand almost on the Canadian Goose which Sherlock knows means the number five. He bites his lip a little, his forehead creasing as he wills the ticking second hand to slow.

Missus Hudson's phone rings, and Sherlock can't help but jump a little.

"Hello? Oh, hello, Marie darling!… No, not busy at all, just peeling the last of these potatoes...I've got Sherlock over… I said, I've got SHERLOCK over..."

Sherlock frowns, worry and frustration gnawing at his insides in equal measure. Missus Hudson was talking to Missus Turner, and that would probably take at least an extra couple twenty minutes because John always said they like to godsip and that always led to the tea growing cold and something about cows coming home.

What ever the case. Sherlock didn't have time for the cows or for Missus Hudson's talk, talk, talking…

-oOo-

"You need to go to Regent's Park. Wednesday when your John is away," she said, and lightly stroked his cheek. "Your little friend will be there at half six, and it's dangerous for him to wait."

Sherlock tried not to move away from her cold fingers even though he really wanted to, his heart hammering inside his rib cage.

"B-but —"

"You want to stay here, don't you, Sherlock? You want to stay here with John?" Her voice took on a sing-song quality that made him recoil regardless.

"Yes."

"Then you need to do as I say."

"Okay. I will."

"Clever boy."

-oOo-

Sherlock takes a breath, and slides off the sofa.

He heads for the kitchen, stopping just before his toes touch the divide of tile and carpet. Missus Hudson has managed to wrap herself up with the telly cord, seemingly unaware as she flutters from stove to worktop. She doesn't even notice him, and Sherlock can tell she's not getting off the phone any time soon.

Quietly, he pads into the kitchen, sidling up to her and clutching at her skirts.

"Nonsense!…Of course he would say that, wouldn't he — not now, Sherlock, dear, Nana's on the phone — well with his wife off in Cornwall, I shouldn't wonder!"

Sherlock sighs as she gently shakes her apron out of his fist, and waves him vaguely back towards the sitting room. He chews on his lower lip, and glances up at another of her clocks, this one with different flowers shaped like the numbers, and his tummy gives a little lurch.

He walks around the small kitchen island behind Missus Hudson, and inches closer to the cooktop where a pot is left bubbling with fragrant broth.

Missus Hudson laughs at something Missus Turner said on the other end, and Sherlock eyes the glowing red coil of the burner…

-oOo-

He reluctantly handed over his stuffed bee, his heart twisting in his chest. He watched as The Woman — for that's all Sherlock has ever known her by — lifted one of the soft felt wings and dug at the seam with her sharp, painted fingernail. He cringed when a popping, tearing sound could be heard, and sniffed back the tears threatening at the surface.

She stopped, and glanced at him reprovingly. He looked down at his blue quilt, avoiding her eyes, and crossed his feet at the ankles so he wouldn't be tempted to kick her just so she would stop hurting Geoffrey.

"You will take this with you when you go, all right?" she said, and he nodded his understanding, still not willing to meet her gaze. "Good boy. Now go down stairs."

He slid off the edge of his bed, eager to leave the room.

Her hand, claw-like and still oh so cold, wrapped around his wrist.

"And remember the rules, Sherlock. No telling."

"No telling," he repeated.

She smiled at him, and the bright, bitter shine to her eye softened somewhat. With her other hand she gently stroked his cheek one last time.

-oOo-

Sherlock hiccups a sob as Missus Hudson guides his fingers under the cool stream of water.

"Oh, Sherlock," she tuts, peering into his face as he sits on the counter next to the kitchen sink. She inspects the bright red marks on his skin, prodding at the blisters already forming with gentle touches. It hurts, and Sherlock can't help but sob even harder. "Shh, shh, dearheart," she coos, returning his poor digits to the tap, "I know it hurts, but what ever were you thinking, messing about near the stove?"

"I just w-wanted my ju-juice!" he says, mournfully. It's a lie, but Sherlock couldn't think of anything else to do, and practically everything he tries might be considered telling and that was against The Rules. But oh, did it hurt.

She tuts again and wraps an arm around him, hugging him tight. Sherlock can tell that she feels bad about him touching the stove, that she blames herself, and he hates that he made her feel that way when it wasn't her fault at all, and now he's even lying to her, and if she knew how horrible he was being —

"M'sorry Missus H-Husdon. I'm bad," he says into her sweet-smelling cardigan.

"Oh, Sherlock, no. It was an accident, and I should have been paying attention, you poor lamb. Here, I'll fix you right up, and then I think we need to have a warm milky and a nice lie-down, hm?" she says, her tone still filled with regret, and that just makes Sherlock feel even worser.

He lets Missus Hudson daub a sticky ointment on his smarting fingers, and then wrap them snugly in a gauzy bandage almost like a mitten. His fingers feel a little better, but he still feels awful about the whole thing. Almost like he never really left Mister Hope's and all of the bad things, the terrible things that he helped cause were happening all over again.

But, that's not what was going to happen this time. The Woman promised. She said that this would be the last time they play their game, and this time was the most important because his Father didn't know about it.

And hopefully, if everything goes right, he would never be his Father again.

Sherlock shudders out a sigh, and curls into Missus Hudson as she lifts him into her arms.

"There's my good boy," she whispers, and carries him to the sofa. She sets him down on the lumpy, but comfortable cushions, and tucks the lavender scented afghan around him. She floats back into the kitchen, and Sherlock can hear her setting the microwave to heat a little of the sweet tea he likes. She always makes it best with extra honey and a little cream instead of just milk. He smiles sadly, and cuddles Geoffrey to him, wanting to bury his face in the soft fur and never come out because he doesn't deserve to have a nice tea, and a nice blanket, and hugs and kisses for being so rotten.

Missus Hudson doesn't seem to notice however, and after the microwave dings, she brings him his milky tea with a soft smile and a kiss on his forehead.

He takes a few sips and hands it back to her while he sinks down further into the cushions, his bumblebee still pressed tightly to his chest. He closes his eyes and tries to slow down his tense breathing as the ticking bird clock drums on like a tiny hammer to his sensitive ears. It's almost a relief when Missus Hudson puts on one of her scratchy records even though it doesn't quite drown out the sound of time moving steadily on.

He knows better than to fall asleep though he's starting to get drowsy. However, between the butterflies in his tummy and the throbbing in his hand, he doesn't think he could drop off anyways. Instead, he falls into a somewhat meditative state, laying there on the sofa, feeling his heart beat one-two, one-two.

Somewhere between counting his breaths, and listening to the record play it self out, the clicking of Missus Hudson's knitting needles has ceased, and it's this absence that has Sherlock coming back to himself. He cracks open an eye.

Just like always, Missus Hudson had fallen asleep herself, her latest project — a tiny jumper for her sister's Yorkie — abandoned in her lap, her chin drooping towards her chest.

This is what Sherlock was hoping for. She was like clockwork, Missus Hudson. Every Wednesday when they would curl up and watch movies before John came home, she would always nod off. Ex-pecially after her special tea, and Missus Hudson was already on her second cup which is currently cooling on the table beside her.

Sherlock sits all the way up, and moves the blanket off of his lap. He quietly drops down to the floor, hoping his trainers don't creak like they were wont to do. He grips Geoffrey tight in his good fist, and tip-toes across the sitting room.

He lingers on the kitchen threshold once more, glancing at Missus Hudson before walking across the tiles to the back door. With a heavy sigh, he looks back over his shoulder to the flowery clock-face:

6:07 PM

He closes the door behind him with some difficulty, his bandaged fingers making it awkward to grip the handle, and continues out into the alley behind Speedy's.

A breeze ruffles his hair, and even though it's finally March, there's still a damp chill in the air that makes him shudder hard. He nestles Geoffrey under his long-sleeve shirt, and crosses his arms over his chest before heading in the direction of the park.

He wends in and out of alleys, past the statue of the man in the funny hat, avoiding as many street cameras as he can based on The Woman's instructions. A few people give him odd looks, but he doesn't linger in case they try to stop him and ask him questions.

The sunlight is rapidly disappearing, and with it, the little warmth of the remaining day. Sherlock's teeth begin to chatter as he passes Madame Tussaud's, and he tells himself it's the cold and not the creepy wax people he knows are lurking behind the advertisement-plastered windows.

Through a few more back streets, and across another zebra crossing, the park finally comes into view.

He makes a bee-line to the duck pond and stands near a large tree, hoping he's not very noticeable to the few people milling about. He knows he probably looks strange by himself, ex-pecially because he is so short and people always mistake him for being younger than he really is.

A couple holding hands stop and stare at him curiously, making like they want to approach him. He nearly panics, and stoops to pick up a hand full of rocks, tossing them one by one into the water as if he always does this at the park. After a moment, they continue on their way, the woman with long dark hair and a kind face, smiling at him as they pass. Sherlock smiles back, but it slips off his face the moment they round the bend in the walking path. He lets the rest of the stones fall into the water, almost grimacing at his own reflection. The pit of his stomach aches, and he tires to take his mind off it by watching a few mallards wade across the still surface. It's not his favourite duck pond, the one at Hyde Park being bigger and with more ducks, but it's nice all the same and he wishes he would have thought to put a few of Missus Hudson's short bread biscuits in his pockets before he left. It at least would have been something to pass the time.

More than a little anxious, Sherlock sits down on a flat rock, and tucks his knees to his chest and waits. The sun continues to ebb away bit by bit, and the park slowly becomes deserted.

"Shezza?" a familiar voice calls out, and Sherlock swivels his head around. He peers through the gloom of trees and scrub behind him.

A pale faces appears in the shadows, and Sherlock scrambles to his feet, brushing the twigs and dirt off his clothes. "Wiggy? Is that you?"

"Indeed, Shez. How you been, you wee bugger?" he says, emerging from his hiding place and ruffling Sherlock's hair. He smiles, but there are tense lines around his mouth, and Sherlock notices a dark bruise along one cheek that looks quite painful.

"What happened?" he asks meekly.

"Nuffink for you to worry about, never you mind." He gives Sherlock a keen once-over, his hand coming to squeeze his shoulder. "I'm glad you're 'ere," he says after a beat, his throat visibly working around a hard swallow. Sherlock begins to read all of the Stories about him, all of them grim. His cheeks are hollow, his face appearing more sharp because of it, and his hands shake where they grip him. But it's his eyes that worry Sherlock. They keep darting around, looking for something or someone, and it dawns on him that Wiggy is frightened. Wiggy was never scared of anything.

"Are-are you —?" Wiggy cuts him off with a shake of his head, and tugs him under the canopy of newly-budding trees away from any passersby. "I have something for you," Sherlock insists, clutching at his friend's sleeve, hoping this small thing will chase the shadows out of his friend's eyes. Wiggy grins a little.

"Mhm. I know you do. And I betch you was very brave in getting it to me, too," he replies, leading Sherlock around to a path that meanders to a different part of the park. He chivvies Sherlock down a set of stone steps where there's a nice secluded spot probably for bird watching, the tunnel of a foot bridge nearby. It's by this tunnel where Wiggy finally comes to a stop.

He licks his lips, looking down at Sherlock. "What all did she tell you, Shez?"

Sherlock bites his lip, looking down at his toy still tucked in his shirt. Instead of answering, he pulls out Geoffrey and hands him to Wiggy with no small amount of apprehension.

Wiggy takes the toy, and immediately lifts the floppy wing, seeking the hidden seam with ease. With his first two fingers shaped like a pincer, he pulls out a slim, black device in a plastic casing. The tension in his face and around his eyes slackens, and he takes a relieved breath.

"What is it?" Sherlock asks because even though he is worried and kind of afraid, he's still very curious.

"This right 'ere, is the answer to a lot of people's problems," Wiggy murmurs, his eyes never leaving the little stick. Sherlock recognises it now: it's something that goes in a computer.

A sharp sound ricochets from the other end of the tunnel making both of them jump. Wiggy grabs onto Sherlock's arm, his eyes saucer-like and frozen as he stares down the narrow darkness. Sherlock can feel the anticipation rolling off his friend in waves, and Sherlock, too, fixes his gaze to the end of the tunnel, waiting for something to happen, for some boogeyman to breach the entrance and give chase.

Instead, at the mouth of the tunnel a magpie flaps it's wings with an irritated caw, making Sherlock jump again, and Wiggy huff out a laugh.

"Oh go on, you miserable blighter!" Wiggy says through his giggles. Sherlock grins in relief too, as Wiggy puts a hand over his chest. "Nearly gave me 'art attack. Now, c'mon. It's getting late and I better be getting you home." Sherlock nods, and takes Wiggy's hand. He looks down at Sherlock with a thoughtful expression, an idea lighting in his eyes. "You got pockets, Shezza?"

...

Wiggy takes them the long way back in the direction of Baker Street, hopping from darkened backstreet, to dimly-lit street corner until Sherlock hardly knows which direction is which. His good hand is firmly clasped in his, and at times it almost feels like his arm is being pulled out of its socket by how quickly Wiggy is dragging them along. His legs ache for all the trotting he's doing just to keep up.

"Just a few more streets, Shez, I promise," Wiggy says, head on a constant swivel as they hurry out of a quiet neighbourhood and up a main road Sherlock finally recognises. He doesn't say anything, concentrating on using his breath for putting one foot in front of the other.

The sun has finally made its way behind the multitudes of London's buildings, and even though it's not quite fully set, the street lights are beginning to flicker on. A chilly fog has also rolled in from the Thames, making the air smell heavy and moist, and the trees, although beginning to sprout some cheerful green in the daylight, still look skeletal and bare in the gloom.

The sound of tyres on asphalt screeches its way from somewhere close, and suddenly Wiggy jolts to a stop. Sherlock runs into the backs of his knees, and before he has a chance to peer around him, Wiggy has them sprinting to a damp alley behind a shop. He presses them into the rough bricks at their back, one of his arms bracing Sherlock as he looks around the corner.

Sherlock holds his breath. A cat yowls from somewhere, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and chills race down his spine. There is a beat, then two, and for a moment, Sherlock thinks the danger has passed. Then there is an angry shout, and Wiggy has them backing up into the alley even more, and Sherlock really hopes the shadows hide them as the sound of a car door and clipped footsteps reaches them from the road. Wiggy tugs him around a large metal skip, forcing them both into a crouch.

"I don't fink they saw you," he whispers earnestly. "I'm going to try and lead 'em away before I give 'em the slip, then I'll come back 'ere for you. Stay down, Sherlock. And no matter what, don't move 'til I get back." He goes to get up before Sherlock grabs onto his wrist.

"What if —?"

"If I don't come back, you best remember what I told you, yeah?" he says, eyes growing wide and intense when he hears the footsteps hasten their approach. Sherlock nods, swallowing hard, and lets Wiggy manouvre him until he's laying on his front. The skip sheltering him is on wheels, leaving about a five-inch gap from the ground that he can see through, and when Wiggy tugs a mouldy cardboard box over the top of him, the gap becomes the only way he can tell what's going on. After a moment Wiggy's trainers come into view, before he takes off in the opposite direction from the street, not caring to keep quiet as he scales what sounds like a chain-link fence.

Sherlock clamps his hands over his mouth when two sets of black boots jog past his hiding spot. One of them mutters a mean word ― a word John always says is bad ― his voice deep and gruff. Another voice, raspy and high-pitched, barks a command in another language before the rattle of the chain-link can be heard again. Only one pair of boots, the larger pair, runs back to the mouth of the alley, the clodding footfalls retreating in the distance.

It's quiet again, and Sherlock strains his ears for any little sound, hardly daring to breathe any louder than the shallow breaths he releases through his fingers.

A loud set of bangs, one right after the other, causes Sherlock to start violently. The makeshift roof nearly slides off in the process, but Sherlock doesn't notice, the rapid pounding of his heart drowning out his hearing. He knows that sound. Has heard it many times. It's a gun shot sound, and all Sherlock can think about is his friend out there in the dark, hot tears springing to his eyes.

It is quiet for a little while longer, and Sherlock is on the verge of crawling out of his makeshift hideout, for lack of anything better to do when the sound of a tussle, and another pair of shoes burst into Sherlock's view. One of them is Wiggy's dingy trainers, but the other pair — brown, leather, what John calls sensible — is new. Sherlock freezes, curling even tighter into himself, waiting for some sign.

"Th-this is it, I swear," Wiggy rasps, and the other person shoves him away, making him stumble and fall to his hands and knees in front of the skip. Sherlock's eyes grow wide when he sees his friend's clothes spattered with drops of red, red blood. "P-please. It's here. Please."

There is a pause, and then Sherlock's world narrows down to two words:

"Show me."

Sherlock knows that curdled voice with its cigar-stale breath and yellowed teeth. That voice that spat lies at him, and screamed insults in an alcohol induced rage. It's the voice that shapes a good deal of his nightmares, and also of his inner-most insecurities and self doubts.

It is the voice of Mister Hope.

For a moment Wiggy stays on his hands and knees, nothing but his shaky breathing tattering in the deserted alley. Then one of those brown leather-clad feet jerks up, delivering a swift kick to Wiggy's ribs.

Wiggy yelps, falling sideways and clutching his middle as he gasps brokenly for air. He turns his head and his watery brown eyes lock with Sherlock's. There is pain and so much fear, and Sherlock would have looked away if it wasn't for the last thing: the fierce determination sparking from within and tightening his friend's jaw with resolve.

He nods at Sherlock, minutely but almost triumphantly, and Sherlock nods back, the tears finally falling from his eyes. He knows this might be the last time he will ever see him, and the thought makes his entire chest ache.

So, it is with a keen sense of loss that Sherlock quietly pushes his stuffed bee towards Wiggy, making sure to get it as close to him under the skip as his arm can reach.

Wiggy gives another imperceptible nod, and covers it by making a show of rising back to his knees.

"'Ere. It's here. I...I hid it..." he says, painfully reaching under the skip for the toy. With one last look at Sherlock, he withdraws, and pulls himself back to standing.

There is a tense silence wherein all Sherlock hears is Wiggy's harsh breathing. And then:

"I know this. The boy. Where is he?"

Sherlock's heart jackknifes to his throat, but Wiggy remains stubbornly silent.

"Fine. You're coming with me," Hope says, anger lancing his words, followed by the distinctive click of a gun. "Let's go."

Sherlock muffles a sob when both pairs of shoes leave his vision, the sound of their footsteps melting away in the night.

He shivers, cold and alone, and aching deep inside.

Kudos to anyone who knows what funny statue Sherlock passes by near Madame Tussaud's. ;)